


On Fatherhood

by bauble



Series: Amuse-Bouche [13]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-09 07:02:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12271350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bauble/pseuds/bauble
Summary: Coda to Amuse-Bouche.Arthur and Eames adopt a baby. Parenthood is not what Eames expected.





	1. Chapter 1

Being a parent is nothing like Eames expected. 

He'd heard about the sleepless nights, the exhaustion, the general way in which a newborn takes over your life, but mostly that hasn't been a problem. Arthur stayed up later than he should have in the first month because he could barely stand to be parted from the baby, but that tapered off as he grew more comfortable with the night nanny and realized he could be a better parent if he wasn't nodding off constantly the day after.

There's the poopy diapers and the feeding, which Eames had a fair amount of familiarity with thanks to Mal. He's not as efficient at it as Arthur, who has babysat almost a dozen babies in his lifetime and is a seasoned professional at this point, but the process is fairly straightforward.

The baby is not particularly given to crying or fussing, preferring to sleep or watch the world quietly, with the occasional blink. Arthur interprets it as curiosity, and adores that quality (like all the others) in his little girl. Eames finds her quiet stillness a bit unnerving.

The bad parts of parenting don't seem so bad thus far. However, the good parts--the parts Eames had been looking forward to with anticipation--haven't been so good, either. Eames had expected an active, rollicking baby, the way both Phillippa and James had been when they were infants. He'd had such fun playing peekaboo with them, watching them smile delightedly every time he reappeared. This baby--Isabella--peers at him, watching intensely and somberly, with nary a smile to be found. Her rare smiles seem exclusively reserved for Arthur.

Not that this is Arthur's fault, of course. Eames can hardly fault a baby for being as mad about Arthur as Eames is--who could resist his strong arms and reassuring voice? 

But the first few months after the adoption are difficult ones, Eames attempting to acclimate to everything new in his home: the day nanny, the night nanny, the midwife, the nurse, Arthur's mother, Arthur's father, Una, Arthur's sister-in-law, and of course, the baby. Not everyone visits or stays in the house at the same time, but the constant in and outflow of people orbiting around this new center of the universe leaves Eames feeling perpetually disoriented, off-kilter.

After the first four months, most of the visitors leave (including Olivia, to Eames' great relief, which he would never verbalize directly to Arthur). The paid staff settle into more predictable rhythms, while Arthur continues to excel at fatherhood. Yet Eames' unease persists, his discomfort with this new stage of life unabated.

"She is a very serious baby, no?" Mal says, the first time she holds Isabella. "Not one for frivolous smiles or noises."

"You needn't sound so approving," Eames replies. The baby looks like she belongs in Mal's arms. "I could do with a bit of frivolity."

"Ah. You were hoping for a rosier temperament?"

"I don't think that's an unreasonable expectation. Phillippa and James were agreeable and rambunctious babies."

"All expectations are unreasonable when they come to children," Mal replies, rocking Isabella to and fro. "They are people who come to us as they are. That is how I ended up with a house full of cheerful Americans, despite living in France."

He chuckles, and watches her kiss Isabella's nose. "I was hoping for an Izzy. When I look at her, though, all I see is an Isabella."

"What does Arthur call her?"

"Bella. Baby Bell." Eames sighs. "It is outlandishly cute. But I can't--somehow it doesn't feel right when I try to say it."

"Do you want to hold her again?"

"I--yes," Eames lies, not missing the shrewd way Mal watches him take Isabella in his arms. It's been four months and it still doesn't feel natural, easy, the way it is for Arthur. "They grow so quickly. She was tiny when she first arrived."

"Yes, they do." Mal's eyes aren't without compassion as Eames tries to rock Isabella the way she had. "They do become more active as time goes on. Perhaps it will be easier then."

* * * * *

The jealousy doesn't help.

Eames has grown accustomed to a mild undercurrent of jealousy with regards to Arthur and any attractive man within a kilometer; it is yet another manifestation of the gnawing fear that he will never be enough. It's something he has worked hard on in therapy and over the years, it's shrunk to something manageable.

But the jealousy he feels over sharing Arthur's time and attention with a baby is--new. Different. He's afraid to discuss it in therapy. What sort of person harbors such negative feelings towards a helpless baby? 

Yet the feeling persists, no matter how Eames tries to push it away. He is resentful of the way Isabella monopolizes Arthur's days. He envies how easy it was for her to enchant Arthur; Arthur fell in love on the ride home from the hospital. Eames is also irritated with the way her existence now dominates their conversations. All Arthur wants to talk about is how wonderful she is, how quickly she's learning, how adorable everything she does is. Even when she's sleeping or in the care of a nanny, Arthur wants to share videos of her doing--to Eames' eye--very little. Every wag of her left arm or twitch of her toe is worth celebrating to Arthur's mind.

Perhaps that is how it should be. Perhaps that is what Eames would be feeling too, if he were bonding with her properly. Arthur hasn't seemed to notice the distance yet, thankfully, but Eames can't help but wonder if this is how it will always be. If all he'll ever see when he holds Isabella is a stranger, someone that doesn't look like him and never will. If he's a selfish, chauvinist monster who can't find enough room in his heart to love an innocent baby because it isn't biologically related to him.

Is this what his parents felt when they had him? They came to visit Isabella exactly once, and didn't stay beyond the afternoon. Their interest was limited to ascertaining that she was indeed a human child in their care, and their only remarks ran along the lines of, "Rather small, isn't she?"

Arthur hadn't said anything when they left, but Eames knew he'd been disappointed by their reaction. "Darling," Eames had said as he embraced Arthur.

"It's okay." Arthur sniffled into his shoulder. "Your parents are who they are, and they're not going to magically transform because I want them to. But I guess I don't understand how you can look at Bella and not fall in love."

The words were like a lance to Eames' heart, knocking the breath from his body. Arthur didn't notice, face tucked against Eames' chest. Eames said nothing as he kissed Arthur's forehead. He couldn't; the fear that Eames was turning out to truly be his parents' son had stolen his voice away.

* * * * *

"You should talk to him," Mal says. "Tell him how you feel."

"What if he doesn't understand?" Eames whispers, dread rising up in his throat like black bile. "He loves her dearly. What will he think of me?"

"Sometimes it is easy to bond with a baby, and with others it takes longer," she says. "After James, you know I cried every single day for almost three months before I told anyone. Now I cannot imagine the world without him, but it was very hard at first."

"But you had hormones and another child and I--" Eames chokes on his guilt. "I wanted this so badly. I wanted her because Arthur wanted this and now that she's here, I can't stand it."

Mal puts her arms around Eames and squeezes. "Talk to him."


	2. Chapter 2

"Hey, gorgeous," Arthur says, coming up behind Eames to sneak arms round his waist.

Eames wants to lean into the embrace, to take comfort in the thump of Arthur's heartbeat, the whisper of his breath. If only the inside of Eames' chest didn't ache like an open wound. _Will this be it?_ a part of him wonders. Is this what finally pushes Arthur away?

Eames summons all his courage and turns. "I want to speak with you about something."

Arthur smiles, eyes glinting mischievously. "Sounds ominous."

"It's about Isabella." 

Arthur's smile fades when he realizes Eames isn't flirting. "Is something wrong? Is she okay? Do we need to--"

"She's alright, I promise. She's with the nanny right now. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to alarm you." Eames' stomach seizes up with fear as he tries to work up the nerve to speak. "It's--the problem lies with me. I'm afraid I'm going to ruin everything. Your dreams. Our family."

"Baby, what--"

"I want to be a good parent. I want to--feel for her the way I should, but I don't. It's been months and I still feel like a babysitter, not her father." Eames blinks back heat behind his eyes. "I don't know what to do to change that awful fact."

He braces himself for Arthur to react with horror, to withdraw. He expects recriminations, disappointment. For Arthur to turn away, to find someone who can love a child properly instead.

Arthur takes him by the hand. "I had no idea you felt this way. You're having difficulty bonding with a child, which is something that happens to many parents--biological or adopted. When Beth and Lou Ann first adopted their little boy, it was a process for them, too."

"But you said--" Eames throat feels thick. "After my parents left, you said that you couldn't understand how someone could not fall in love with her. And I'm--and they--"

"Oh, Eames, no." Arthur kisses Eames' knuckles. "I wasn't--I shouldn't have said that. I was upset because their visit didn't go the way I wanted it to and I was thoughtless--"

"Is that how you truly feel, though?" 

"Bonding is different for every person and every baby," Arthur says firmly, tugging Eames close. "You're attentive and caring and you're trying your best to be a good father."

"And if my best isn't enough?" Eames stares down at the ground. "I don't want her to grow up with a hole in her heart that she tries to fill with fame and the approval of strangers. I don't want her to feel the way I did, growing up."

Arthur kisses Eames on each tear-stained cheek. "I don't want her to crave fame or the approval of strangers, either. But if she grows up half as wonderful as you, I'll be the proudest parent alive."

Eames ducks his head, a blush rising. "Darling."

Arthur places two fingers underneath Eames' chin and guides his head up. "I mean it."

Eames leans forward to kiss Arthur, feeling shy and relieved and overwhelmed with gratitude. He thinks his heart might burst from it all.

* * * * *

"I think you need to spend time with Bella every day, just the two of you," Arthur says as he strokes Eames' hair from his face, tenderly.

Eames lifts his head from Arthur's chest. "But you love being with her." Eames doesn't want to take that away from him. 

"I do, but she needs two parents, not one," Arthur replies. "You need to be by yourselves, without me interfering and monopolizing her attention. That way you'll develop a relationship just between the two of you."

"She doesn't like me as much as she likes you," Eames says, voice low against Arthur's collarbone.

"She will." Arthur squeezes him affectionately. "You're irresistible. I should know."

* * * * *

They start with a few hours every afternoon, after she's been fed and changed. The nanny is in the next room over, easily available if something terrible should happen or Eames panics.

The first day, he tries to play a few games with her. But all the games that delighted Mal's children provoke only mild interest from Isabella. She watches him, but doesn't gurgle or do much of anything in response.

He tries to mimic what he's observed Arthur doing. Picks her up, twirls her around, and covers her face in kisses. It feels--fine. She doesn't cry, but she doesn't smile, either, probably because she can sense that he's only going through the motions.

He holds her for a while, cradling her neck and rocking her in his arms. It gets boring, quickly, and also rather sweaty; she generates a shocking amount of heat for something her size.

After the first few days, Eames gives up on touch-induced bonding and drags her crib into his music conservatory. He might as well practice if he's going to sit around failing at being a proper parent.

He plucks out some scales and arpeggios to stretch his fingers on the Steinway, notes that he'll need to bring in the tuner again; the action on the piano has become stiff. He loses himself in playing one of Dvorak's quintets, and realizes with a start some thirty minutes later that he's supposed to be looking after Isabella. Anxious, Eames peers over the side of her crib to find her calm and awake. 

He exhales. Perhaps tomorrow he ought to switch to an instrument that provides easier sight lines for fewer heart attacks.

The next day, he switches to cello. The following day is trumpet with a mute in consideration of delicate infant ears, then a handpan. He also learns that if he props her up on a couch, he can keep an eye on her while playing instead of having to lean over the side of a crib constantly. 

She is a surprisingly good audience: quiet and attentive, gaze following the movements of his fingers across each instrument.

After a week or so, he begins to narrate his session: naming each instrument, describing each piece he plays, and shows her what he's doing. He has no idea if the words or sounds mean anything to her, but she remain awake and focused, at least.

A week later, he graduates to having her touch some of the instruments. Her hands are impossibly tiny on the ivory of a piano key or the neck of an oud. She paws at everything gamely, mapping out the edges and curves with her fingertips. 

The only time she startles is when she accidentally knocks a pair of cymbals together, the unexpected sound causing her to shriek in fear and recoil away. Eames scoops her up in his arms and begins to rock her gently, making soothing noises and humming. Isabella quiets as he sings a lullaby one of his nannies sang when he was a boy. 

"Who's a brave little girl?" Eames murmurs as he uses her bib to wipe away the dampness on her cheek. "Everything's going to be alright, isn't it? We're going to be alright."

He begins to look forward to the sessions. It's an opportunity to practice, and to revel in music with someone else who seems to enjoy it. He starts to play for her recordings of symphonies, operas, musical theater.

Months pass, and Isabella grows from a squashy red alien creature into a sturdier, more fully developed baby able to sway in time to music. He enjoys their afternoons together, playing for her his favorite pieces and performing new songs.

He's in the middle of jotting down lyrics when he hears Arthur at the door. He's smiling. "You guys having fun?"

Eames glances over at Isabella, who is playing with a baby rattle and cooing to herself. "I believe we are."

"Hey, Bella." Arthur drops a kiss on Eames' lips before scooping Isabella up in his arms. "Are you a fan of Daddy's music? Are you a budding musician, too?"

Isabella waves the rattle as Arthur snuggles her. Eames sets down his guitar to watch them. _My husband and my daughter_ , he thinks, testing out the phrase in his mind. It feels less foreign than it once did.

* * * * *

They start sleep training at eight months, with Arthur fretting so badly that he places not one, but three baby monitors in the room (which is at the far end of the hallway to discourage him from leaping out of bed and running to her at every peep). The night nanny will be on hand to check in periodically, but Eames anticipates several weeks of sleepless nights mostly spent comforting Arthur.

To both their surprise, the bedtime routine they developed seems to be working. On the first official evening of the sleep training, she wakes three hours after being put down and fusses. Arthur darts out of Eames' arms to hover nervously over her cradle. She cries for another few minutes before tiring out and dropping off to sleep for the rest of the evening.

On the second night, Isabella cries for about ten seconds, hiccups, and then begins to hum. There's no tune to it, but Arthur turns to Eames in surprise as they listen to her sing herself to sleep over the monitors.

By the end of the week, Eames is treated to five minutes of his baby singing every night before she falls asleep for a solid ten hours, alleviating Arthur's anxiety-fueled sleep deprivation. It is strange to be the one providing reassurance and calm while Arthur worries, but Eames is pleased to be able to help in his own small way.

"Isn't she amazing?" Arthur says one evening, while they lie in bed together. His voice is reverent, adoring as he watches a baby monitor.

"She is." Eames cuddles closer to his darling husband and feels his heart swell with an incredible happiness. This is his life. This is his family.

* * * * *

"Would you like to hear something new?" Eames lifts Isabella out of her cradle and walks her to the other side of the conservatory. "Would you like to listen what Daddy bought?"

He holds her up to the recently unpacked set of orchestral bells, and strikes a clear, lingering note to demonstrate. She cocks her head to one side, listening solemnly. "These are orchestral bells, also known as the glockenspiel. When you're big enough, I'll show you how to play."

Isabella runs her fingers over the steel bars as he describes every piece of the instrument, from the tuned keys to the mallet. She watches with great interest as he plays a short song for her. 

When he's finished, she looks up into his eyes and reaches towards his face. He obliges by bringing her closer. Isabella grasps him by both cheeks, gaze piercing, demanding. She's nothing like Mal's children, nothing like what he envisioned.

"I see you," Eames says. He wonders if she's been waiting this whole time for him, patiently. "And you are a marvel."

fin


End file.
